


Within Your Eyes

by endquestionmark



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman, Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/pseuds/endquestionmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Worship me," he whispers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Within Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking, but I assumed that Bilquis' vagina only eats people when they're worshiping her, not the other way around.
> 
> I love a world where a sentence like the above makes complete sense.

Bilquis spends her nights outside from late spring to early fall; the air is warm and damp and the type of men she needs are out, revelling in the stars and breeze and, if she’s right and they’re lucky, in her.

Tonight the air is still and the sky is grey with low cloud, and people are not going out for walks; even the most desperate are inside, because a storm is coming, and outside is no place for people.  She murmurs to herself, words abut lilies, words that have no meaning, or else one that is long forgotten, and it’s late, past midnight, and perhaps she will go home soon.

She walks down the sidewalk, and her downstairs neighbor is watching through his blinds; sometimes he brings home girls who are a lot like her, and perhaps one of these days she will allow him upstairs, to the room where the light is a soft deep red.  Perhaps he is the type of man who will give himself to her, body and soul, and then she can sleep for a while, sated.

Not tonight, though, because there is a man sitting on the steps, long limbs folded.  He wears a dark suit and a long coat, strange in the humid air, and he looks at her with old eyes in a young face.

She looks at him for a long time, standing at the bottom of the stairs, at the pale lines of his hands and the stillness of his face and the blue, the slatey blue of his eyes.

“Why are you here?” she asks finally.  The words are strangely muffled in the heavy, hot air.

“Why does anyone come here?” he asks, folding his hands, leaning forward.

“They come for me,” she says, quietly.  “Are you here for me, baby?”

He says nothing, but stands, offering her a hand.

She doesn’t know why she takes it - perhaps it is something in his eyes, some subtle tell, or the weariness behind the blue.

In the dark red room he lights the candle, places it in the stone candleholder, and sheds his coat like a bird shaking off loose feathers.

“Who are you?” she says, and he doesn’t say anything, just undoes his cufflinks and puts them on the table, one either side of the candleholder, like a strange ritual.  Bilquis knows some of those herself.  His shirt is like folded paper, white and clean, and he draws her to him there in the flickering candlelight and kisses her.

It’s been a long time since anyone has kissed Bilquis like this, and she gasps, goes loose and limp against him and wraps an idle leg around his hips to pull him closer.  “You are Bilquis,” he says, and it isn’t a question, and she nods, her whole body hitching up with the answer, because names have power, and he speaks her name in a way that she would hear from across worlds, from death itself.

She pulls him to the bed, and half-undoes his shirt, leaving it loose around his shoulders as she presses kisses to his neck, lipstick smearing across his pale, pale skin.  He wraps his hands around her abdomen, pushing up her tight shirt and tracing the curves of her ribs.

“Worship me,” he says, and she knows, suddenly she sees him, green eyes and gold and green robes, she sees him for what he truly is, but by then it’s far too late, because her teeth are fastened in his shoulder and he jerks upward, breath catching like a dreamer waking.

“Honey,” she says, “I worship you - “ and she breaks off and gasps because he pulls her shirt over her head, slips one hand into the cup of her bra, and his fingers are cold around her nipple, like ice.  “I worship you with my hands -” he pinches, hard, and her nails leave red runnels down his arms.

“Worship me,” he whispers, the words barely a hiss between his lips, and she undoes his trousers and rubs against him hard, hitching her skirt up.  “Worship me, Bilquis.”

“God,” she says, barely aware of what she’s saying.  “Yes, I worship you - “ and she rubs again against his cock, losing herself in the feeling of his fingers around her breast and the slow burn of friction.  She reaches between them to slip him inside of her, thighs aching with the effort of holding herself up so that he’s barely inside her, just the head.  “I worship your eyes, blue as frost, and your hands, which shape things that are and were and will be.” She sinks down slowly, slowly, muscles straining hard.  “You are the Trickster and the outcast and I would put aside a hundred others to walk with you - “

He wraps a hand around her hip, holding them together.  “Yes,” she hisses, “yes, you are the god of half-truths and lies, and your lips are blasphemous and your breath a falsehood, and not even you are real.”  He rolls his hips up and she rises up again, slamming herself down to take him in deep, feel the stretch of him and the slide of their bodies.  “Your true skin is a shame to you, so you hide it with more deception, and you lie with your very existence - oh, god, god-”

His eyes are closed, and she wonders if this is what it feels like, to become the mouthpiece of another, older force, even as the words pour from her and he rocks with the irresistible force of belief, of being, and she gives it to him, gives him everything that she would usually take.  He moves then, picks her up bodily and pulls her back to him, and she sobs with the force of it, of gods.

The muscles in his neck are drawn taut and he is beautiful in the flickering flame, the color of his skin shifting from moonlight to something subtler, colder, and she is too far gone to care, because he gasps, fucks into her hard, and she’s gone, breath burning in her lungs and chest juddering as she comes hard, making tiny helpless sounds.  He gasps, the sound torn from him like a scream, and she rides it out, twitching, as he thrusts up, head thrown back, beautiful in the tangled white sheets.

When she opens her eyes, the room is dark, though his body is still beneath hers, shuddering.  Some time ago the candle went out, and the room is chilly as he picks her up like a doll, lies her down on the bed and dresses and relights the candle.

She is spent in every sense of the word, and she will need to sleep now, perhaps for a week, before she can go out again.  She flops boneless against the pillow.

“Will I see you again?” she asks.

“No,” he answers.

She doesn’t know if he’s lying or not.


End file.
